Chapter Text
The world had successfully not ended with a bang or a whimper, but instead had persisted to the tune of wailing relief and murmurs of reassurance. It had been a close one, too! Euphrasie had seen a lot in her life, but warping reality through sheer desperation was a new one. Well, desperation and Wishcraft, evidently. She hadn’t gotten to see much of the final encounter, having been tossed away like a doll by the Traveling One’s immense phantasm, and right after the sky behind them had stretched wide and then furled around Mirabelle’s party, closing them in behind walls of sheer Craft. Eventually, the ragged tears in the world had sealed themselves back up, and Mirabelle and her companions had been left in a huddle of releasing tensions. Euphrasie had kept herself out of clear earshot, to leave them their privacy. Ah, it was so nice to look at the clear skies, and not see any of the King’s Curse on the horizon.
“H-head Housemaiden! Euphrasie!”
She was already turning at the sound of her title, but hearing little Mirabelle shout for her in such a tone quickened her steps. The little circle of her companions had broken up, revealing that Siffrin had passed out and was now being held by the Burly One. Euphrasie hurried over, already opening her Craft senses.
Only to nearly recoil at the sheer amount of Craft filling the area with static. All of it centered on the darkless rogue. She knelt down and placed a hand on the pale forehead. The fever had in no way receded yet; if anything it was worse. She’d been worried about Craft exhaustion, but this was beyond her initial estimate. It was much worse than she’d thought.
“Burly One,” she addressed the man holding the limp body, and ignored the sudden choke of surprise he sputtered out, “Follow me to the infirmary, and bring them along. Quickly.”
“What’s wrong with him?” The Bookish One was the first to try and keep pace with her, as she guided the procession back into the House.
“Craft Sickness, worse than I feared. Mirabelle, go look for any of the medical staff and tell them to get to the infirmary. We need to siphon the Craft out of him before it starts decaying his tissues.”
“Ah! Y-yes, Head Housemaiden!”
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Once in the infirmary, the Bookish One took the Young One to fetch cold water and clean towels, while the Burly one laid Siffrin (oh, she really needed to learn the rest of their names!) onto a table. At her direction, he stripped the fevered body of the heavy cloak and, after needing a sterner command, divesting him of his dark shirt and pants, as well. The Burly One made a wounded noise as he peeled off the sleeves to reveal dozens of sluggishly-bleeding wounds, each too regularly shaped to be anything but intentional. A worry for later. Euphrasie directed the returning companions to wet the towels, then plaster them over Siffrin’s exposed skin. Hopefully, the medical staff would have a better plan for lowering that fever, but right now anything was better than nothing.
Euphrasie opened her senses again, this time bracing for the overwhelming pressure. Then she blinked. Twice.
“…huh. That’s strange.”
The Bookish one fixed her with one of the most intense stares she’d ever experienced (my, Mirabelle had found such interesting companions!). “What is?”
Euphrasie frowned, and probed the room with her Craft senses again, just to make sure. “The Craft energy is… depleting?”
The Bookish One adjusted her glasses. “That’s what we wanted, right? Siphoning it away?”
“Well, yes,” Euphrasie said. “But Craft energy doesn’t just vanish. It has to go somewhere. And I… don’t know where it’s going.”
“...oh Gems.” The Bookish One paled a little, eyes fixating on Siffrin. Just that reaction immediately told Euphrasie that the Bookish One had more than the average education-- not that it would have been hard to guess—but the more specific ways that Craft energy differed from other natural forces wasn’t generally necessary to know for everyday life. Usually, energy of any sort (such as the heat from a fire, or even lightning from the sky) followed the path of least resistance; it would spread itself and move to areas where it was not already saturated. Craft was different: Craft demanded to be used. Carefully Crafting a spell that didn’t use all energy available in an environment meant that what was left over would seek to bolster the next available channel.
And if the Traveling One knew Wishcraft, then… Change, why had she encouraged people to wish at the favor trees? She hadn’t known the correct ritual, there was no one left who did, but she should have realized sooner she was setting up an avalanche through sheer quantity. This was all her fault. She needed to fix it.
The first of the medical staff that Mirabelle must have found burst into the room. Housemaiden Raul (it was such a unique name she always remembered!) strode in, assessed the situation, and immediately started barking orders. There was a reason he was head of the medical staff. Euphrasie caught him up on what little she knew. Using Craft on someone suffering such extreme Craft sickness was a gamble, but she agreed with Housemaiden Raul’s decision that they needed to know more before any sort of treatment plan could begin. Euphrasie added her focus to theirs, and together they cast an examination Craft.
“That… shouldn’t be happening,” was Raul’s take, when he looked away from what his Craft senses were telling him. He spotted the argumentative expression of the Bookish One before she could comment, and explained, “If what we’re seeing is correct, the patient is… absorbing all the excess Craft energy. Condensing it, even.”
“And what does that mean?” The Bookish One snapped.
There was a moment of awkward quiet as Raul looked to Euphrasie, and found no solace. Euphrasie swallowed, and addressed the Ka Buan woman. “We don’t know. It’s unprece----”
Euphrasie froze.
It wasn’t unprecedented.
As though finally seeing them for the first time, Euphrasie looked over Siffrin. Darkless hair. Acknowledgment of Wishcraft. A build that suggested they were underweight, maybe even chronically. A darkless cloak with two pins. Absorbing craft.
It was insane to think about. The odds were astronomical, the term fraying her concentration even as she tried to focus. But--
But what if…?
“Raul, keep them stable. I need to look something up.” She didn’t wait for a reply, just grabbed her skirts in one hand and sprinted out of the infirmary.
Her office wasn’t so far she couldn’t run the whole way, and once she got inside Euphrasie moved immediately to the bookshelf at the back. She gripped the shelves and pulled, the entire mass falling down and scattering books across the floor, exposing the hollow built into the wall. She ran painted nails over the handful of lightless papers and volumes contained within, until she found what she sought. Old, not yet decrepit, the leatherbound journal with its lightless pages and darkless ink; she snatched it from the hidden shelf and started flipping through it.
It was the diary of someone who had lived years, even decades ago, on the island north of Vaugarde. It was only legible due to the author’s purpose of practicing their written Vaugardian, and even then, many terms and every date was redacted by whatever force had erased that culture. Euphrasie flipped through the pages as fast as she could, trying to reach the part she remembered.
X.XX.XXXX
What I both hoped and feared has come to pass. My sister’s newborn daughter has been chosen for the Choir. The xxxxxxxx took her today to the temple to start the process. Many of the details are kept from the populace, but I have never thought it out of malice. I am unsure if I still feel that way. The Choir is blessed and necessary, but that does not erase the cost. I had reservations when xxxxxx started trying for a baby in the year that the xxxxx will pass by, but it is not as though I can blame her for wanting to start a family.
That was the start. Euphrasie flipped a few pages, then a few more.
X.XX.XXXX
Little xxxxxxx is doing well, though my sister xxxxxx complains often of her appetite. They are complaints without meaning, she and her husband are delighted with their daughter, no matter the circumstance. The Craft seems to have settled in her without issue. I am grateful that we will have 14 years with her until the next step, when she will be fed Craft until
And here several words, redacted and not, were crossed out.
I cannot find a good word in Vaugardian. I think ‘kindling’ is the closest, but it does not convey what I want. Kindling is when the xxxx in her heart will begin to burn, and start the changes to make her part of the Choir. Then we will have to say goodbye to her for at least a year, as she becomes something new.
I already know her songs will be beautiful.
Euphrasie folded the corner of the page to mark it, then turned and started running back to the infirmary.
She knew she was too late when she saw light emanating from the open door of the infirmary. Maybe she had always been too late. She rushed in, squeezing past Mirabelle and the extra medical staff she’d brought. Once she finally got a good look at the exam table, the rest of her breath left her like she’d been punched in the stomach.
The Traveling One was there, eyes open and unseeing, back arching off the table as his entire body glowed. The skin over his chest was receding like a tide, allowing a large, crystalline, four-pointed shape to emerge and settle over his core.
The star in Siffrin’s chest flickered one, twice, and then--
(I g n i t i o n)